


The Gone And The Gathered

by Burning_Nightingale



Category: Crimson Peak (2015)
Genre: Afterlife, Gen, Ghosts, Original Character(s), Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-07 00:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5435675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Nightingale/pseuds/Burning_Nightingale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Generations of Sharpe's lived at Allerdale Hall before Enola and the others died there. </p><p>Crimson Peak does not easily let them go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gone And The Gathered

**Author's Note:**

  * For [havisham](https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/gifts).



> The question, "What is Crimson Peak like from the other side?" intrigued me, and sparked off ideas I couldn't ignore! I wrote this in a whirl of enthusiasm just after seeing the movie, and since I edited it after a couple of weeks I hope there are no glaring canon inaccuracies.
> 
> Enjoy, and Happy Yuletide!

The first ghost Enola meets is that of Lady Sharpe.

Not Thomas and Lucille’s mother; this Lady Sharpe, as she explains to a bemused and slightly awkward Enola, was the Lady of Allerdale Hall about one hundred and twenty years ago.

“It was my father who built the place,” Lady Sharpe says, elegantly raising her teacup to her mouth and taking a short sip. “It’s been remodelled extensively since then, of course, but I can still see the old shape of the building he built. Poured his heart and soul into the place.” She leans forward conspiratorially. “Sometimes I think that’s why no one can leave.”

Enola isn’t quite sure what to say. She isn’t quite sure why they are sitting here, in the dead of night, taking tea in the parlour with no one else around. Half of her wants to ask where Thomas and Lucille are, though the other half is quite certain she would be perfectly content if she never saw either of them ever again.

Lady Sharpe looks concerned. “You seem confused, dear.”

Enola _is_ quite sure there is no polite way to ask if someone is touched in the head. Is this woman claiming to be the Lady Sharpe of a hundred years past an old, senile relative? She takes a sip of her own tea, trying to think of how best to broach the subject – and then she remembers the poison, and reflexively drops the teacup.

Lady Sharpe doesn’t seem surprised. “It is hard to get used to, I grant you.”

“I’m sorry, but what is hard to get used to?” Enola asks distractedly, staring down at the shards of broken china.

Lady Sharpe reaches over and places a comforting hand on hers. “My dear, perhaps you haven’t realized it yet. But the sad truth is, you are dead.”

/

Strangely, after the initial shock has worn off, the idea that she is dead is not so hard to grasp.

Enola is not fully present all the time. Her memory, such as it is, is dim and murky, with large and unexplainable dark gaps. The passage of time seems…unstable, as if Enola is not always where she ought to be, here at the house. Where she goes in those dark moments, she cannot say. A coldness grips her, sometimes, though she doesn’t feel cold in the same way she used to, when she had a body; the sensation is hard to describe.

The other occupants of the house – those no longer breathing, anyway – understand. They have all been through this stage before.

As well as the cultured and genteel Lady Sharpe, whose favourite haunt is the parlour with her immaculately presented tea set, there are several other long since deceased former occupants who continue to inhabit Allerdale Hall long after they have been replaced by their more corporeal descendants.

There are three other Lady Sharpe’s. One is a taciturn and stoic woman who likes to wander the lower halls at night, glowing ghostly pale and terrifying. The one time she deigns to speak to Enola, she describes how it used to please her to appear at the ends of corridors and frighten the maids, speaking with particular relish of how the impressionable young women would flee back to their beds and spend all night lying awake under the covers, shaking with dread.

The third Lady Sharpe likes to walk in a rough oval shape around the house. For some reason the idea of going outside seems incredibly taxing to Enola; occasionally she will stand at the door, looking at it, remembering the feel of sun and wind on her skin, the smell of flowers and soil. Perhaps, she concludes, some things are best left in memory, unsullied by her current predicament. So she watches Lady Sharpe make her rounds from the window, and never a word passes between them.

The final Lady Sharpe is Thomas and Lucille’s mother, and the other ghosts seem to disapprove of her. “She meddles,” the first Lady Sharpe says over another midnight tea. She doesn’t elaborate; this seems enough to merit universal disdain.

There is also the fact that her favourite activity is to recreate her own death, lying in the bathtub upstairs with a meat cleaver embedded in her forehead, moaning piteously. Enola decides it might be best to simply leave her be.

There are others aside from the Sharpe’s who inhabit the Hall. The ghost of a mischievous boy dashes through the first floor corridors, darting right and left and disappearing before anyone can chastise him. Enola is not sure who would, but he always seems to be glancing over his shoulder, as if adult reprisal is never far away. Then there is Flora the kitchen maid, who appears around midnight and kneads and bakes enough bread for a full household each night. She’s not the most talkative of ghosts, so after a few stilted conversations, Enola leaves her to her work.

And there are others, those who don’t introduce themselves, those who do not step forward into the light. Enola glimpses them at the end of corridors, sees them disappearing into rooms as she turns corners, catches them lurking in the corners of her vision. She doesn’t know who they are; none seem dangerous. At least, none seem interested in approaching her.

Still, she walks the corridors of Allderdale Hall with more caution now than she did when she was alive. Then she knew the number and outward temperament of the individuals who lived with her, even if she had only uncovered their true natures far too late. Now, she is in far more uncertain territory, and has the previous experience to tread with caution.

Dealing with the living inhabitants of Allderdale Hall is a much simpler task. She soon finds that neither Thomas nor Lucille seem aware of her presence; she is almost disappointed that she can’t appear as a glowing ghostly figure or influence objects to fall off shelves. Instead she is resigned to being as invisible to them as the air they breathe or the particles of dust they crush under their heels. It is maddening at times, but also strangely freeing – realizing how little they matter, now she is dead. What can they do to her? She is far beyond their reach.

She has been dead for quite some time – the leaves outside have yellowed and fallen, and winter snow is on the ground, though she is certain she did not see every stage of the change – when she meets the man she likes to think of as the Captain.

He has a sailor’s air about him, something she picks up on even before he mentions that he once commanded a vessel in the King’s Navy. He is a former Baronet – she didn’t catch which one, or perhaps he didn’t mention it – and he likes to appear below the hole in the ceiling, in the centre of the grand entrance hall. She meets him there one night when snow is falling, making a small mound in the middle of the floor.

“A disgrace,” he says gruffly, not turning as she approaches. “My house. My _home_. Reduced to this.”

“The family has fallen on hard times,” Enola says quietly.

The Captain huffs out something that might be a laugh. “I believe you are more aware of that than anyone else.”

Enola steps up beside him, and they stand side by side for a long while, watching the falling snow. Eventually he says in a low, gruff voice, “Has anyone apologized?”

“Apologised?” Enola blinks. “I- No, I don’t believe they have.”

“My own blood,” the Captain spits, disgusted. “Not even a word of remorse for the woman their descendants murdered. You have been rudely used by this family, my dear – and now you’re forced to haunt this crumbling excuse for a home. What a sad hand fate has dealt you.”

“They killed others before me,” Enola says, not entirely sure why she’s bringing it up. “I haven’t seen them.”

“Doesn’t mean they’re not here,” the Captain says darkly.

/

Enola hears the child crying one night while she’s standing in the hall, wondering if the Captain will appear to talk to her again. The sound is coming from upstairs; she follows it along the twisting hallways, listening intently. She is no longer bound by walls – she is able to pass through them now, to eschew the constricting layout of the house and punch straight through to the source.

The baby is lying in a crib in what was clearly set up to be a nursery. The room looks as if it hasn’t been touched for years, and Enola is certain she never saw it while she was alive. She is no longer able to try the door, but she guesses it would be locked, and one of the keys on Lucille’s huge ring would open it. No wonder she never saw this place.

The baby is…she’s not quite sure what’s wrong, but something is. Still, it’s crying and she feels she should try to comfort it, so she picks it up and rocks it gently, hoping to be soothing. After a while the baby quietens a little, and then appears to slip back into slumber.

As she places it back down into the crib, Enola wonders. Surely they are stuck in limbo, so the baby will never grow – it will forever be trapped in this place, in this time. The sadness she feels is clear and cutting, as vivid and distinct as nothing she has felt since becoming a spirit.

There is no sound, no whisper of breath or movement, but somehow she knows in an instant that a presence stands behind her. She turns quickly; a familiar figure is lurking in the shadows by the door.

The late and most recently deceased Lady Sharpe. They stare at each other across the room for a long moment. Enola isn’t sure what to do – should she speak?

Lady Sharpe appears content to simply watch, until the moment she nods – the movement almost imperceptible, it is so slight – and then she slides back through the door, out of sight.

Enola isn’t sure what to think of the strange encounter, but she avoids the room after that, even when she hears the echo of the baby’s cries down the hall.

/

Then Thomas and Lucille leave, and the house is silent and still for a very long time. Perhaps it is simply Enola’s imagination, but it seems to her that the longer they are gone, the more ghosts appear, flickering in and out of existence all around the house. Still there is no sign of the two women she knows were murdered before her, but the Captain appears much more frequently, lamenting the state of his house and singing old sea shanties in a low, gruff baritone.

And then Edith arrives, and everything changes.

Enola watches her, the first night. Watches Thomas leave; she never follows him at night. She knows where he goes. She doesn’t need to see it.

Instead she watches Edith sleep, watches her soft breaths, and thinks to herself, _That was me once._

In the morning she watches Lucille make tea, sees the small vial slip out of her sleeve and the contents emptied into Edith’s cup, and thinks to herself, _God, that was me, once._

That night, she finds the most recent Lady Sharpe. “I need to warn her,” she says, “I need to appear.”

Lady Sharpe regards her without expression. “The others disapprove of such things.”

Narrowing her eyes, Enola spits, “The others can go to hell.”

Lady Sharpe laughs. “Where do you think we are?”

/

Later, Enola gathers up the baby. Edith has seen the pictures, heard the recordings; she knows everything.

Most of everything, anyway.

Floating is not a particularly hard trick, she’s found, but it is dramatic. It will add flair. Enola hasn’t had the opportunity for flair in a long time.

/

“I know who you are,” Edith tells her.

The final hour. The closing act.

Enola raises her arm, and points.


End file.
